


Eggshells

by mister13eyond



Category: Death Note, Death Note: Another Note
Genre: AU, Codependency, Gen, Implied Violence, Implied abuse, Microphilia, Miniature Character, Other, Threats of Violence, Threats of Vore, Unhealthy Relationships, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mister13eyond/pseuds/mister13eyond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>L Lawliet is only eight inches tall, and he's so fragile, and you want to crunch him in your teeth and curl him into your pockets all at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eggshells

**Author's Note:**

> Influenced by the doujin Takuran, which can be found here: http://dndoujins.tumblr.com/post/50549837884/takuran  
> Cowritten by thrustingbutts.tumblr.com, not currently an ao3 member.  
> L is only eight inches tall, and he was dreamed into being by the person (implied to be Beyond) who's now his caretaker. Takes place in an AU where Wammy's was never a thing and L is small enough to fit in a pocket.

He depends on you for everything. He’s so helpless. For every hurt you inflict on him you have to painstakingly mend it because there’s no way to take him anywhere else. And he knows that, too.  
So he has no choice but to try to trust you. He doesn’t trust easy.  
It’s a fragile thing. With the underlying knowledge you could snap him in two if he pushes too far. And that you might if it didn’t mean losing a valuable plaything.  
It’s an exercise in self control. After all, he’s your responsibility. And he’s still the world’s greatest detective. If you mess up, there’s no replacing him. So sometimes you have to be gentle to remind you not to break this tenuous thing or his tiny body.  
You are so gentle all the time, even in your harshest moments. Even when you’re threatening him in the worst situations, you have to be so so careful not to just bite him in half.  
And he knows it, too. He knows how much harder your jaw could close, how much deeper sharp things could cut, how much harder you could squeeze. And how much louder you could get in your yelling and how easy it’d be to deafen him. Or blind him or castrate him or amputate a limb. And how sharp knives are always somewhere close at hand and how he could easily be locked in a tiny cage or taken in for experimenting and how he still gets whole slices of cake with you, internet access and all of his tiny limbs intact.  
The good times could be so good, but the bad times could be sooo bad, so so bad. And he’s terrified.  
He’s terrified and yet he knows it could be worse and so he’s stuck, and you both know this, and sometimes that’s what makes you want to hurt him too, because you hate him for being scared, and you hate him for not leaving, and you hate him for wanting to leave. You hate him the most when you are sewing something up, tiny neat stitches with the finest needle possible, and he is so good and he doesn’t squirm or whine and you know he trusts you to do this and you hate him for that.  
Because when you get down to it, when you really dig into the meat of it you just hate him so much. And he doesn’t even hate you back, he just somehow understands this weird psychological power trip over him and how it affects you.  
And he should be able to stop it or at least want to stop it, you are indignant for him, but he isn’t able and he doesn’t want to and you hate him. And even when you are brushing his hair with a doll brush and bundling him in a fluffy washrag after bathing him, when you tuck him into the tiny bed you’ve made him, you hate him and want him to hate you back so bad but he WON’T, he understands and it drives you mad. And the secret is he doesn’t CARE, he doesn’t actually care about you in the slightest even though you care so stupidly much about him.  
You made him, for christ’s sake, he came out of your head, and you can’t get over how much that makes you feel like God.  
And he’s yours, he belongs to you, he is yours and you tell yourself over and over. To him you are God. His life is in your hands in the most tangible, visceral way and you know it so why won’t he just care, goddammit, why won’t he just acknowledge you?  
But then you suppose he is probably used to people playing God.  
You know he’s not even stirred by the statement. He’s seen enough of that, You still keep trying to hammer him home. What would God have done if Adam decided to be an atheist? Atheism doesn’t even seem the right word. He knows you’re there, you’re real. He simply doesn’t give a fuck.  
No, that’s not right. It’s not that he doesn’t give a fuck. He just knows that you’re as human as he is.  
Because you are. That’s the worst part. You are so, so sickeningly human, and sometimes your hands shake, and you have to hold your breath not to disturb tiny work, or you get overwhelmed. He may be tiny, and breakable, but every one of his little organs is the same as yours. You are made of the same chemical makeup. You’re fallible, and he has no time to call someone fallible divine.  
You’re fallible, and he makes you so afraid to make mistakes. Tiny little stitches, tiny probes and threads and tiny whispered words that are still so much bigger than him.  
He makes you want to be perfect. He makes you want to be holy, and actual divine thing, a real god. Not a human with shaky hands and careful, careful stitches and hot breath and sharp fingernails and a space by your pillow reserved for him. He makes you hate yourself, and him.  
You could lose him so easily, you both know. So you keep your floors spotless and his ways down secure and you cater your whole world to him without even realizing until you’re both in this comfortable house of tiny rope ladders and cushioned drops and eerie cleanliness. You don’t even notice the padded corners anymore, the little pathways you make for him, the way you habitually clean the undersides of tables now, that your normal line of sight has lowered and you no longer pay as much attention to the world above waist height. You forget that other houses can have parasites and never even know; you fervently kill every insect that so much as alights on a windowpane. One day you wake up and realize this house is his and you are his.  
And that realization crashes down on you, but you can’t stop it. You still feel sick each and every day, still worry yourself into shakes whenever you’re away. Is he alright? What if he fell? What if something’s fallen on him? Did you leave him something to eat today? And every day you rush home and hope not to find him dead.  
You have to stop yourself from scooping him up and holding him there for too long every time. He has things to do, he’s busy, he complains, but every time you find him alive you can finally breathe again.  
Until you come home one day and you can’t FIND him, god no, and he won’t answer.  
You tear the house apart (carefully, carefully, in case you find him hurt) and give up, and oh FUCK you’re so angry when he comes up again. He was just sleeping, everything is fine, but you’re so angry you cry more than you already have.  
You don’t cry on him, oh no, wouldn’t want to drown him. You don’t even clutch him tight, don’t want to give him internal bruising. You throw the smallest, safest fit you can manage. You can’t even scream and rage, you’re just shaking and choking and getting progressively angrier and angrier as you realize how you can’t express this ball of sick and fear and angry in your chest, and he’s so confused and annoyed with you and you can’t even explain it through the shakes and anger. You’re angry with yourself, mostly, that you’re breaking down so completely in front of him. It gives him power over you, something he’s had so long already. But at least it wasn’t so painfully OBVIOUS before.  
You could at least pretend before that he belonged to you, that he was the pet, but now you’re crying and he’s staring at you and you wish you’d never dreamed him into being in the first place, but not too hard because you are legitimately scared you could wish him away. You want to kiss his stupid hideous face and his crooked spine and his stomach but you’re busy looking fucking pathetic and being angry that you are so pathetic and all you can even manage is a stupid fucking “don’t ever do that to me again” which just digs your grave so much deeper.  
And you know he’s glad you decided not to touch him because you’re covered in snot and tears and all the evidence of a gross ugly cry. He thinks you’re disgusting for just a little while, which is overwhelming. He usually doesn’t care.  
You finally manage to breathe steadily enough to calm down, you are disgusting and you need to wipe your face, and he’s still staring at you, and you manage to coherently ask if he would like to get an iPhone and ride in your pockets when you go out from now on, which is the most pathetic thing you have ever stooped to but you can’t take this worrying sick any more. You are so pathetic that it makes your stomach burn and you almost want to bite him again or scratch him or cut him but you would only end up crying more and you’ve had enough of that. So you finally get yourself completely under control, you think.  
But you still find your hands antsy when you try to sleep. You demand he sit on your pillow while you sleep and try to make it not sound like begging. Try being the key word.  
He protests and grumbles and makes a show of being put out by the demand but does it anyhow and you count it as a small mercy. He knows you won’t disturb his perch, you have trained yourself to sleep so so still, another proof of how he has destroyed you.  
You know it makes no difference to him, it;s just a relief to hear his tiny breaths. He breathes so much faster than you, his lungs take less time to fill, each rise and fall of his chest is such a small motion.  
You watch it until you fall asleep, the light from your window catching his hair only when he moves out of the shadows. He’s so silent you feel like a monster beside him, some great beast disturbing his quiet everything. The wind from your breathing plays on him in a way you know he probably can’t stand. You are so huge and ungainly and ugly, and he is so small and perfect.  
He manages to fit more intellect into inches than you know large people have in their entire bodies. You feel like a clumsy stone golem next to him and you finally manage to fall asleep and the last thing you see is him and that is the most pathetic thing that has ever occurred to you and you sleep in peace.  
You’re the pet, you realize when you wake up. Your breath catches uncomfortably when you don’t see him as soon as you open your eyes. And he knows just what it’s about and lays a hand against you to let you know. Just like some stupid movie, something much more romantic than the two of you.


End file.
